His name is Luke. But nobody knows that. He was an iconic musician before he gave up music. But nobody knows that either. They also dont know hes twenty-seven, that he used to have an infectious laugh, and that hes way too young to be widowed. They certainly dont know the rest of his tragic story. All they know is that he comes into their café at the same time every morning and stares at the same chair at the same table. They know hes strange. They know he interrupts their breakfast with a cold blast of air as he hovers in the doorway, mustering the courage to confront a piece of furniture. No one asks why. No one cares. Hes fine with that. Hes done with life. This isnt even his story anymore. Its actually Callies, the young writer who sat in his chair one day.
